OK Portland, we need to discuss your driving.
First of all, if you’re trying to move forward, you have to use the pedal on the right. Otherwise, you’re stopping. Also, blinkers. They exist and serve a specific purpose. Also, climate is a thing. You’ll have to learn to work with it. And if someone’s trying to change lanes, you have two basic options. You can either be nice and slow down, to let them change lanes, or you can be an asshole and speed up. What you cannot do is speed up just enough to pull up beside them, look over, and honk as though they’re being unreasonable for not sideswiping you.
To be fair, I realize every city and state has its fair share of incompetent drivers, but it seems clear to me they all move here. I’m even willing to acknowledge that I’m part of the problem. Since moving here, I’ve apparently forgotten how to park.
Do I leave my car in the middle of traffic or on the sidewalk? I’m pretty sure it depends on the time of day. Even if I’m prepared to not park like a piece of shit dangling from the rear of a bearded collie, I play this little game called “Is It A Parking Space?” SPOILER ALERT: It’s not a parking space. It’s never a parking space. I’m not even convinced Portland has parking spaces. Regardless of neighborhood, there’s just a series of rectangles that seem like they should be parking spaces.
(listen at https://soundcloud.com/yourfaultforlistening/brockett)
I recently had the terrible realization that I am the bus screamer. Not just yet, but eventually. Whenever there’s a fully developed bus screamer, I feel a deep, almost spiritual connection that startles me to the awareness that I’ve been mumbling incendiary things under my own breath for the duration of our shared commute. So, sooner or later, my inner censor has to give out, and once it does, let the public outrage commence.
In fact, I was recently walking downtown, angrily mumbling to myself as I have been known to do, when an elderly, disheveled gent with one giant rat’s nest dread lock protruding from the center of his head approached me. He placed one hand on my shoulder, looked me dead in the eyes – as much as he could with all the darting back and forth – and said, “Don’t worry, brother. I hear’m too.”
I’m still not sure if I was disturbed by the fact that I was being consoled by the mentally ill or the fact that it was so goddamn comforting. Like, I hugged him and placed my head gently on his filth-encrusted shoulder. And then, he stabbed me with a piece of broken glass.
(listen at https://soundcloud.com/yourfaultforlistening/segovia)
It’s embarrassing to admit this, but I’ve been Black for over thirty years, and not once in all this time have I been threatened, harassed, harmed, or even arrested by police, despite committing numerous crimes. The truth is, 100% of the racism I have ever experienced has been at the hands of White people without badges. So, if you ever see me post something extremely negative and disparaging about the police, I actually just mean White people, but I don’t want anyone to feel bad.
You see? That’s the hidden magic of police violence. It gives the rest of White America a temporary pass to say “the n word” while singing along with Kendrick Lamar. It’s like a golden ticket of racism.
But don’t misunderstand what I’m saying. There are plenty of cops throughout the country getting away with horrible things, because our entire legal system needs significant reform. That being said, I don’t think we should eliminate law enforcement, because we still need police for the positive roles they play in society. For example, you may recall the recent tragedy in Orlando and who defused that situation. It wasn’t some random group of well-intentioned gang members, but the police – a very specific group of well-intentioned gang members.
Similarly, there are plenty of White people all across the nation getting away with terrible shit. And again, I don’t think we should eliminate White people, because we still need White people to do stupid shit, like explore undersea caverns and go into space.
(listen at https://soundcloud.com/yourfaultforlistening/weierhauser)
I had a child for one very specific reason: a legitimate excuse to avoid my friends.
When you have social anxiety it’s hard to always come up with a believable, if not good reason to avoid the ones you love, and you can only pretend to have died once or twice before they catch on. I sometimes wonder if Jesus just pulled the ultimate long con. I mean, his friends were especially shitty, so I’d understand. And if that strategy has truly worked for the last 2000 plus years, I’d be willing to call him my personal savior and follow his example with zeal.
Aside from faking my own death, I once ghosted a friend’s wedding because Fred Meyers had a sale on baked goods. The shameful part of it is how easy a decision it was for me. Be witness to the prelude to someone else’s marital bliss or my night alone with cheesecake?Simple. If you think about it, they’re the selfish ones for getting married. And then inviting me? Blatantly inconsiderate.
(listen at http://soundcloud.com/yourfaultforlistening/kuppenbender)
I have an eclectic taste in music, but a special soft spot for old folk and bluegrass – mostly because I love the key of G – and I don’t think it really counts as bluegrass unless you can hear tobacco sloshing between jowls with just a subtle, little touch of racism.
I especially love to listen to those dusty, old records on dark, rainy nights, and imagine the taste of the moist mountain air, and smell the pungent smoke of tobacco pipes and old chimneys. Between the rapidly spun notes and percussive stomps, I can faintly hear the sounds of a bubbling brook, and a black-eyed dog barking off in the distance. And a little part me even feels the sense of dread that I’ve made a wrong turn and ended up in the boonies, where a hate crime might just pop out of the trees at any moment.
“Oh my god! Was that a shotgun?!”
My personal favorite artist in the genre is Ralph Stanley; a true legend who penned such poetic lines as “Hidey hibbety hubbety ho.” And those words always hit me right in the heart like, “Well mumbled, sir. Well mumbled.”
(listen at http://www.soundcloud.com/yourfaultforlistening/holt)
I think we should replace the word arachnophobia, because I think it puts too much blame on the victim. No one talks about “murderous stalker phobia,” and a human stalker is actually better, because they’ll at least write you some creepy love letters before breaking into your house to claim their prize. But for a spider, that’s pretty much its icebreaker. They just break into your house, creep out on a corner, and look at you like you’re small.
And we’ve all walked into a spider’s web, right? And what is a spider’s web but a booby trap? That’s why they put them in front of your door. They know you walk in and out, day and night, and they want you to get stuck in it, so they can kill you and drink your blood.
(listen at http://soundcloud.com/yourfaultforlistening/nakis)
People don’t always believe me when I say I’m getting older, but it’s true: age really is a thing that happens, and the most frustrating part about my aging process is that I’m not getting any better. Like, I had really hoped to get my shit together by the time I reached my thirties, but even now I feel like I’m just beginning to find myself, and question the most basic components of my identity – like my own sexuality and whether I was born with it or maybe it’s Maybelline.
Granted, I recently found a shade of lipstick of which I’m particularly fond called “Cosmo Kitty.” So, it turns out my gender identity may be thirteen year old girl, which is a bit more specific than I would have otherwise thought.
That said, I can understand why my image confuses people. Some assume I’m a cross dresser, though I don’t personally see it that way. Others have assumed I’m transitioning into a woman, and that’s not exactly true either, because I don’t want a vagina; I just don’t want a penis. Basically, I just want nothing there – The Ken Doll, if you will. Like, if I could just have a black hole for a crotch, that would be perfect. And I don’t get why, with all our scientific advances, we can’t just remove the Higgs Boson from my genitals.
(listen at https://soundcloud.com/yourfaultforlistening/heywood)
I just can’t with free internet pornography.
Some of my readers may be too young to remember the early days of free internet pornography – also known as the early days of the internet – back when the internet was just porn and chat rooms, and chat rooms about porn. But back in the good old days, when America was great, you would visit your favorite porn site (which was any site, at all), and be presented with beautiful, low res images of young couples making sweet, passionate love behind a dumpster in an abandoned warehouse – like your parents used to do. You’d click on your preferred picture and, even though the scene was only going to be [maybe] three minutes long, you had a good three hours for it to load. So, you had time to go downstairs and make yourself a nice post-masturbatory snack or, if you felt especially saucy, you could order a pizza. So, it was good for the economy.
You’d go back upstairs and, with all that pint up tension, you were bound to finish before anything weird happened. You’d eat your snack and rest peacefully, just as God intended.
But nowadays, you go to any one of these sites and you’re instantly bombarded with image after image of people munching on each other’s prolapsed rectums. Now, maybe I’m old fashioned, but I miss the days when internal organs stayed inside the body. You can call me a prude, if you must, but some traditions should never die.
(listen at http://soundcloud.com/yourfaultforlistening/yeoman)
We all weigh ourselves after using the bathroom, right? That’s something we’re all doing and I’m not just a freak?
It’s a tricky proposition though, because you want to have lost some weight, or it’s kind of a disappointment, but if you lose too much weight, you have to question your lifestyle choices. Like, if you lose 10lb in one sitting, you probably need a new diet.
Anyhow, one of my friends recently bought me a bathroom book, which is a strange concept to me, because my primary goal when using the bathroom is to leave as soon as possible. Whereas, when I read a book, I want to take my time and really absorb the information. Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever drunk a beverage while peeing or eaten a sandwich while pooping, but absorption and expulsion are awkward activities to combine.
What I do, however, enjoy doing while using the bathroom is meditating. Both are activities I don’t particularly enjoy, want to end as soon as I begin, and I figure the toilet is the best place to contemplate my true nature and flush it down the drain.
(listen at https://soundcloud.com/yourfaultforlistening/elshieky)
This is the time of year that I go on the prowl… for the dick. And not just any dick, but that good dick; that Grade A, top of the line dick; that dick so good you need it to call into work for you, the next morning. And if you should ever find that dick, it’s important to form an airtight bond with it, because once had, you’ll be unable to speak. So, you need it to understand your nonverbal cues and what it’s done to you.
I’ve had that kind of dick in my life, which is why you’ll never see me sit at a live show, because I’ll fuck around, sit on a bar stool, and end up on the floor; and that’s a bad look, but a fine dick.
And that’s my hope for all my readers and listeners, because you deserve a big dick. I deserve a big dick. Yes we can(!) take a big dick. I have a dream(!) that someday, we will all get a big dick. Hallelujah! Thank you Jesus! – hung up on the big dick.
(listen at http://www.soundcloud.com/yourfaultforlistening/jiles)